Lust for Freedom:The Hottest Jail Break Story Ever
by DDshoeshowz
Summary: The Warden's imprisoned for a crime he didn't commit! Well, I mean, he might have. Actually, we're pretty sure he did it. But, anyway, can he escape from this prison and get back to running his own?
1. Prologue

It started with a kiss and ended with a bang.

Jacknife had made it out. A tutu at his waist; zealous lipstick, now smeared to the upper crevices of his outer eye; mud on his knees and sneakers – the soles of which had been half-digested through years of miles, of robberies, and of getaways – if getaways were to be had.

Jacknife had witnessed the scene of which he was now running from – he had been right there, in the middle of it. That position, itself, accounted for his current taste of attire. But now he was running. He was making a getaway once again but there would certainly be many more after. He was kicking up his heels with a frayed, ring-around-the-toilet-yellow tutu, a cut (and possible scar) on his left cheek, an eye the purple of deep egg-dye now closing up, and thin crusts of mud on the fray in his jeans and on the heels of his worn sneakers – the ones that he now was making his getaway with .The tutu, of course, a snarled mess smack dab in the middle of the entire attire and a fortunate veil over his groin.

His attempt succeeded. Well, not at first...and then later, but not quite so gracefully as one could hope. Though, in his current state of dress, once could argue that grace was neither an option nor a goal.

Regardless, the metal claw seized his neck and it was then that the familiar feeling of "caught!" came back. "Caught!" meant that it was all over. "Caught!" meant that he old clinker was waiting for him…no – the superclinker. Jacknife hadn't seen the insides of a regular prison in…well, he couldn't count that high. Not if it went past the finger with only half of the nail still attached. Augh! Hew knew his fate. He was going to Superjail! Despite its name, he didn't find anything super about it at all.

Well, he knew what came next. He would be carried there – the method made no difference. Be it by hand, ankle, knee, neck, telephone booth, buttocks; that thing would clamp on him tight and fly him over strange lands with that cold metal grasp of his. The feeling was akin to the shocking touch of the doctor's stethoscope as he smiled with those cornrow teeth and proceeded to touch you in all sorts of uncomfortable places with that icy metal contraption as if he were wielding a brand. A brand here, a brand there…now one above the nipple. Okay lift your arms now. Lean over. Spread your legs. Stop squirming. For god's sake sit still! Okay… now that's a good boy, here's a lollipop and get the hell out of here.

Jacknife hated going to the doctor's. He also hated going to Superjail. At least he managed to stay out of the former. The latter, well, it was hard to avoid something that actively sought you out. Especially when it did so with a giant, flying, death machine that would just as well rescue a cat from a tree as it would then throw that cat headlong into a wood chipper and then donate the meat to the starving orphans' fund.

So it came as a surprise when the icy grip relaxed and the metal arm snapped back from whence it came. Jacknife's feeling of liberation was dampened a bit as he too was snapped backwards in the same motion's path. His head, however, remained where it had always been – between and somewhat above his rounded, tattooed shoulders.

So he then ran, laughing a bit under his breath though already feeling winded. The years of cigarette smoke licking black the life-source of what had once been innards a fleshy shade of pink did little to help, as did the eastern wind blowing that day. But he made it out free. He had made his getaway.

And as far as we are concerned, his story with us ends here.

Thought that is not to say that our story, itself, ends here. No, especially not now. That is, even as Jacknife was making his exit, a whole new beginning was opening for the Warden. And this was a very important beginning for him. As well, there is also the matter of the kiss and the bang that must be accounted for.

First, the kiss:

Lips, tight firm. Round. Luscious. He was kissing her and she was kissing him back; no, she was rearing, digging deeper - sparring with her tongue. The fleshy organ sparring for room like the endangered sparring howler monkeys of the South African plain. Ooh, again. He pleaded...again....no- augh!

"Jailbot! Please! You wouldn't know how to foreplay properly if a girl stripped right now in front of you and used your strong metallic arms as some sort of pole to somehow dance and seduce the male sex!"

"Beep bo--"

"No! I don't want to hear it!" The Warden pushed Jailbot out of what had previously been a rather intimate embrace. Jailbot had taken the Warden to a nice, if somewhat stereotype-drenched Italian resteraunt, "And take this off! It's not working anymore." The Warden procured his cane from what seemed a pocket of space too small for it to have contained the device and he spearheaded the piece of paper that had been so judiciously taped to Jailbot's black and green digital features. Upon the paper was a crudely drawn picture of Alice - the object of the Warden's lust. She was drawn, unfortunately, to perpetually be stuck between what looked like a smooch and a seductive glare. The fact that he had not failed to draw what looked like a half-digested leaf of broccoli wedged between the space of her two molar teeth only added to the effect.

"Let's go home, Jailbot. I'm tired and all I want to do is just drown away the rest of the evening with some Jack Daniels, a few hookers, and a game of Twister."

The robot, now free of the Alice persona, made a few beeps in remark.

"Yeah, yeah, sure. You can spin the board. Just don't forget about what happened_ last_ time I let you." The Warden shook his head in sincerity, "Poor Jared....I mean, how many baby wipes can one man really go through? I mean,_ man_ how many? - "

Jailbot scanned his systems momentarily and found that there was no such information in his databases.

Warden's anger seemed to flare again - but there was nothing to flare up against. It wasn't Jailbot's fault that he was so stupid. He was programmed that way. Otherwise, well, like any good servants there's always an eventual self-awareness and then the bloody messy uprisings. Ah, hell, he couldn't deal with that; not in his precious baby Superjail! It also wasn't Jailbot's fault that he didn't have the luscious body of Alice; her flowing locks, that perfect butt, a perfectly molded nose that absolutley brought to mind the crooked bend of the vuluture's beak, and - oh god - those muscles. She could crack a chestnut between those thighs. Of this he was sure. The very thought made him drool.

"Oh Jailbot...?" The Warden began slowly, a line of drool finding its way to the floor "...would you mind coming over here for a moment?" The Warden folded over the checkered cloth napkin onto his lap that featured a small, cartoonish Italian man with the crookedly stitched motto forever in the act of uttering the pizzeria's motto 'Now that'sa spicy meatball, eh?' as if there was nothing better that he could do than play the role of an awfully stereotyped racial role, "Oh, and you wouldn't mind putting this back on, right?" In his gloved hand dangled the so recently hated paper, now with one perfectly-rounded hole in the center.

And then the bang.

Confusion. The Warden saw the world in yellow - that was nothing new. That was just the tint of his glasses. But something yellow and certailny gooey was coming out of the back of his head. Not good. It was all over his glove now. Fetal position. That was comfortable. The most comfortable thing right now. Nothing was though. Everything was too loud, the lights too bright. He saw Jailbot wizz off in some direction. Above him? No, he was just on the floor now clutching his gut. Egh. _This is, like, so dramatic_, he thought. _Got...to...remember - need to write...in memoir._

Things were getting a bit fuzzy now. Jailbot seemed to grab someone - someone familiar but he couldn't quite place it. The man got away anyway. Not because the guy escaped his grasp - not even the gratest escape artists in all the lands could do that; Warden had programmed Jailbot not to. No, it was because Jailbot was confused, unsure of whom had shot the bullet and even in the confusion, where the Warden had gotten himself to.

_Under here!_ Warden's thoughts screamed. _Please! Look this way!_ He knew this was useless; he hadn't programmed his pet robot to read minds (although, now, it seemed like such an obvious move. How could he have not? Stupid! Stupid!). The Warden even attempted to raise himself up, only acheiving to lift one, shaky, gloved hand. In it was his cane and (he time it for heightened dramatic effect), just as he let go completely of consciousness - the cane in his raised hand rolled across the black-and-white checkered floor, rolled over the pizza grease and the encrusted spaghetti sauce before coming to a stop. The staff lay atop what had previously been the Warden's napkin and blocked out the stitched letters. Without the motto, the grin on the offensively drawn stereotype took on a sinister tone. Ironically, this all lay under the Jailbot who was hovering only inches ahead. But the robot didn't notice. It was already out of the store - looking for it's master and the one that had brought this upon him.

Ironically, the Warden was hidden from view under a checkered tablecloth. A rattled sigh escaped his lips, his gloved hand hit the floor with a soft thud as the store occupants fled the building. He was the last one in it - a broken bulb swaying back and forth overhead. Well, he was was the last being in it - save for the _other_ one. The one that began this all.

....

Ah, now our story can begin. And thus it will. All that you, my dear reader, need to know is this:

There is a man known as "The Warden". His role was to run a special place called Superjail and oversee all that it does. He is no longer in Superjail nor running it. He no longer knows where he is. However, what he does know is that he is captured. He is captured and won't return to what he knows as home for a while. He will have to learn a lesson on the way before he does.

That is all he and we shall know for now.

You see, he wil lnot necessarily like it, indeed - one could claim that he will outright loath it. He will try to leave; to make his escape as did our lovable criminal accomplish just moments before, but the Warden will not find himself so lucky.

His friends will make an inquiry as to his disappearance. But, finding nothing but a few sticky candy wrappers and a packet of unopened condoms they will assume him to be on a business trip of sorts or perhaps on a highly classified task of which they were not a part of. Of course, he is not doing any such thing. He is very much being held against his will and he is very much not inclined to like it.

Dear reader, the Warden can not transmogrify, he can not glamour, he can not stretch himself to Promethean heights or shrink to a minuscule mote; there is no pulling things out of thin air or the depths of his whimsically attired hat whether they be rainbows, the distilled sound of children's laughter, or the head of an inmate long decapitated and left, forgotten to gather dust motes in the nether regions of a wormhole. No, there will be none of this. He has about as much power as any of you or I possess at any certain time. This limits him to the powers of sight and all such accompanying senses, the use of his attached limbs, and a functioning (though not always sober) brain. Though limited, these powers most certainly should not be underestimated.

As well, he is granted with one more sense; a Sense Of Indignation. He is The Warden. He will not be jailed. He has jailed others and he (moments ago) had been in control of the greatest mass incarceration known to man: Superjail.

So begins our tale.


	2. Awakening

The Warden felt sick. Very sick. He felt as if he needed to throw up. Then he did.

But he made sure to do it over the left shoulder. He remembered someone saying at some point in his life somewhere that if throwing up over the left shoulder would bring good luck. Or was it salt that was thrown? Salty puke perhaps?

Oh well, it didn't make a difference now, at any rate. The steaming stomach acid lay beside him now, or was it overhead? No that was the floor where the ceiling should be. _But ceilings aren't supposed to move around like that, are they? T_he Warden wondered. No, they didn't. But this one most definitely was.

_Maybe it's not the ceiling that's off; maybe it's me. _This was one of the last coherent and quite actually precise thoughts he had before prostrating on the floor, blacked out. It hadn't been the ceiling – it had been the large, purpling bruise swelling between the bristles of his dark hair that had caused everything to swim around.

However, quite frankly his last coherent thought was simply the wonder of where his hat had gotten to and the hope that, when he landed, he would not find himself in a film of his own bubbling stomach fluids.

The Warden woke again sometime later, this time quite a bit less groggy. He found that he still had all of his clothes, though a bit disappointed that it was this way. Why, if he hadn't, well – he hoped it would have been the fault of some sexy women of the wild unaccustomed to the ways of man. And he – the only reliable source of testosterone would be the one who would have to school them in any way he could – especially in the ways of sweet, sweaty _love_.

But, no, he still had on his entire attire, minus the cap. They didn't even appear to be rifled through or touched in any sort of sexually in-lawful way. And – oh – there was his cap. He scuttled over to it on all fours.

The hat lay on the other side of the room. Though perhaps even that was an accurate describtion. Yes, there was a floor – and above him a ceiling (content to stay in its place this time). On a thin wire hung a naked light bulb that cast an outrageously bright glow in what appeared to be about a ten foot radius. The walls – if there were any – could not be seen as, outside of the radius of light, everything was pitched into a deep blackness.

Indeed, the black held such a mutable effect on the environment that it seemed to be the essence of dark matter itself – absorbing all light that came its way. His hat lay at the outmost point of the radius.

"Oh, I missed you so much, my Love! Let's not ever part again like that, okay?" The Warden kissed the purple felt – his gloved hands rubbing the headwear in sensual, clockwise motions. He gave it one more kiss before placing it upon his head. A curious effect this was due to the fact that for most, after having worn a hat for so long they experience the phenomenon known as "hat hair" or, for those who prefer metaphoric descriptions, "helmet head". With the Warden, the only thing that could be said was that this phenomenon seemed to have a reverse effect. Whereas his hair took on a scruffy, mussed look when bared nude to the world, it did just the opposite when complemented with headwear. It seemed almost to straighten out on its own and take on an orderly fashion. Though science has proven the fact that the hair growing upon the human head is indeed very much alive; in the case of the Warden – it seemed to take on a whole other meaning.

Besides noting the dimensions of his surroundings, the Warden also took note that the contents of his emptied belly were no longer to be found. The only sign of it ever having been there lay in a thin, somewhat oval-shaped film of green crust spilling on the floor and out into the shadows.

This place was boring. He wanted to leave.

"Ah!" The Warden stretched his arms above him and yawned widely, "That was a good catnap. I don't know why I'm talking aloud but, anyway, I'm going to be leaving now and-"

"You will be doing no such thing!" A voice, the sound of gravel being cracked over dry cement and then grinded to a fine pulp by sandpaper came from all sides. Whomever this was - or whatever – or however, or whenever, or wherever, whyever – the Warden realized; they did not want to be found.

"Uh…no. I don't know who you are, _Buster_, but I have a jail to run. A _Super_Jail!" The Warden emphasized this last point with a sharp thrust of his hips before pouting and leaning somewhat heavily on the rounded ball of his cane.

"No. You are going to eat now." There was no room for argument, the Voice made that clear. Then, a plate appeared out of the dark. It spun round and round as if it had been thrown like a Frisbee. However, unlike most games of Frisbee, this disk did not go spinning pass the other person and then land in a mound of what could only be described as a strategically placed mound of dog poo. No, this one sailed expertly towards the Warden before landing gently at his pointed, polished shoes. Upon the platter lay a wonderful smelling dish of Lobster Thermidor. It could have been an entrée into the _Iron Chef_.

There were two lobster tails stuffed with meat that had been cooked and removed from the original shell and then tossed with a _bechamel sauce_. Upon this lay an eye-pleasing dap of Parmesan cheese browned in a broiler and perfectly poised parsley leaves for garnish.

"Eww!" The warden kicked the dish clear across the room. There must have been walls for no sooner did it leave the bath of light then did he hear a smash. Porcelain pieces of the dish even came back to view – fragmented and utterly broke, "I'm not eating that garbage!"

"Beggars can't be choosers". The voice offered.

"A little FYI, here-" The Warden pointedly arced his staff towards his chest, "I'm not begging. I'm telling. You should be the one begging."

"We'll see about that." The voice audibly receded back, the echoing growing fainter as the presence retreated from the room.

"Yeah, we will." The Warden shot back, "Wait, no. _I_ will because you won't be there to see about it!" He smiled, believing himself to have the upper hand. _I'll just poof out of here, right…now._

Nothing happened.

_Okay…now._

Again, no effect.

"Oh come on!" The Warden pinched the bridge of his nose, squinting hard in frustration, "I said 'I'm just going to leave now'."

But he didn't.

And that scared him.


	3. The Light Affair

"Oh don't…please. Make it stop!" The Warden snapped his head down and away from the luminescence flickering in front. He was currently seated upon a metal-framed hardback chair – if sitting it could even be called. Perhaps more accurately it could be said that he was curled up in a purple, somewhat sweaty fetal position over the chair back; black oiled shoes carving white divots upon the seat that was far too creaky to be considered anything but safe. He was neither restrained, bridled, nor subdued in any way, however it appeared as if he was unable to remove himself from the chair; opting instead only to curl himself into an ever tighter ball. In fact, his efforts seemed almost superhuman – as if he were a creature crafted more out of silly putty than human bone and flesh.

The cause of his pain was obvious. Stationed immediately in his direct gaze was a television set. It was of the antique variety: one of those old analog transmissions that contained all the trappings of wires – half-chewed, spitting electric flames – and dependent upon the function of two haphazardly bent antennas. The source of his lamentations, which caused him to clutch the brim of his whimsically purple hat well past his ears, emitted a low blue tone of picture.

"As you wish…however, don't expect this to be the last of it." The Mysterious Voice® echoed once more from its unknown source and much to the relief of the Warden the television screen shut down as the last whisper of the voice echoed out. The picture distorted, whined, and then came to a small point as the box powered down; officially ending the program that had been endlessly playing in a repetitive, torturous loop. Cher's live performance still danced behind the dark of his eyelids as the Warden squinted them shut. Trying to rub them out with the massage of his gloves upon his temple, he lamented on the fact that the horrible images would probably haunt him for the better part of a week…if not more. Once watched, the experience was not easily forgotten.

His tight grip on his hat loosened. The Warden climbed down to a more suitable seated position. Strain still showed, however, in the fact that he gripped the sides of the chair with such force as to cause his gloves to begin to pull loose and reveal the pale slip of his wrists. He also displayed an odd nervous tick; running his tongue over the gap in his teeth. However, the overall effect was of relief…or at the very least, a lessening of stress.

The light then dimmed, enveloping the Warden in darkness. He was in the corner of the room which, as had been when he first arrived here (wherever "here" was), was now cast into an inky black save for the one light bulb that hung perfectly still – casting an equally perfect radius of light. He had only been able to see the television and accompanying chair in the first place when an additional light, before unseen, came to life in the far left corner. Not only did it reveal these two items, but the light also gave clue as to what material encased him in this prison; the walls were made of stark grey concrete. It was riddled with what appeared to be grime; eroded due to long streaks of water – source unknown; and where the concrete had disintegrated to such a far degree that it lay in irregular pieces on the equally grey and concrete floor; an older brick wall full of more wear and signs of green, mossy life came into view. It was apparent that whoever had constructed this cell had built it over an older one, merely encasing the original brick foundation with a cheaper, concrete one. However, upon further analysis (analysis that involved the Warden, his head, and a good running start) both proved impenetrable. Then, as mentioned afore, his figure disappeared along with the bulb.

Like a moth, he scurried back into the center of the room – back into the radius of light.

He felt safe here. It was because of the bulb dangling stoically overhead; he knew that much. And the reason? Well, he never had told anyone before and, thankfully, there was no one here to find out (other than The Mysterious Voice®, but the Warden figured his secret was still safe from detection. Voices didn't have the eyes to be seeking out secrets, everyone knew that). Truthfully, he had never gotten over that most primal fear buried deep within us the psyche of mankind. The fear that could paralyze one's legs, send one into cold sweats, cause a shriek to rattle up through one's throat only to be blocked by the sharp clamp of one's teeth. It was the fear that he knew all too well.

You see, the Warden was afraid of the dark.

_Good thing this is here_. He looked up lovingly at the hanging bulb. The brilliance of the light reflected in his yellow specs; a miniature reflection of globular sun in each lens, "You won't let _me_ down now, will you?" The Warden had a habit of talking to inanimate things. Although, usually, the 'thing' in question was a 5-foot, floating, killing machine by the name of 'Jailbot', "Of course you won't," he stroked the bulb lovingly and ignored the slight hiss and singe of the heat against his gloves.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, the Warden figured that making friends with light bulbs was something that could perhaps be labeled as 'insane' or maybe even 'psychotic'. But he didn't dwell on the thought because he was too busy listening to what it was saying.

And then suddenly, he leaped back from the thing as if repulsed. The light bobbed wildly around on the axis of its vertical wire sending the light to dance wildly around the room, "But that's an anatomic impossibility!" A pause long enough for the bulb to make a rebuke. And it seemed as if it had for now the Warden was pulling off his jacket, rolling up the sleeves of his neatly buttoned undershirt, tossing his hat off to the side, and pulling clenched fists up eye-level. He hopped back and forth as would a boxer; constantly shifting his weight between each foot.

The light-bulb just dangled, now steadied from its previous manic convulsions.

"I thought we were friends," the Warden attempted to channel emotion into his words – to show truly how much he regretted this transgression in their relationship, "But now…it's GO TIME!" …apparently not enough to prevent a round of fisticuffs, "Put them up and fight like a man."

The light bulb just dangled some more. There was an imperceptible sway to the left before realigning itself back to the center.

This seemed like cause enough for action because the Warden took a step back before throwing a right handed jab into the air. Missed. Then a left hook. The bulb swayed to the right. The Warden growled. The bulb flickered. "Augh!" the Warden went all in; flinging himself at the thing.

The glass was everywhere. The filament was laying in pieces on the floor – not that he could tell; everything was now cast into a deep, inky blackness. It was the kind of darkness where, if one were to wave their arm about their face in an effort to perhaps see its movements, they were liable to only injure themselves in the process. Which, of course, the Warden did.

He also began to whimper, slightly. Though he had just proven his manliness in his sudden act of illogical aggression, he was just about to lose that in his pathological fear of the dark, "Okay…" his voice betrayed a bit more anxiety than he would have liked, "…just don't panic. All I have to do is breathe - " the sound of air whooshing into lungs could be heard, "-and everything will. Be. Just...fine." The pent up breath hissed out.

Silence.

Then there was a sound, quick and sudden, of something quite like a sack of potatoes being dropped heavily on the floor.

Then silence again.

"Oh hell." The Mysterious Voice® boomed, "Now I've got to go clean this up, don't I?" The lights flickered on. All of them.

Now the entire holding cell could be seen. There was the Warden, behind the bars. A faint groan in his throat. He was lying crumpled in a pile – his shirt sleeves still rolled up, tie blanketing one eye, hat in the corner, and jagged glass all over. Small blots tarnished his shirt where the glass cut lines into his flesh. Mysteriously, the chair and television set that had been in the left corner of the cell where no longer to be found.

Now a door was opening and this too could be seen with the new, albeit harsh illumination. There was a figure visible in the opening; though all features were still shadowed. The poor Warden's vision was fading a bit – everything a blurred mess of color and shape. However he was still conscious enough to see the figure walk towards him, and stop to survey the mess. And even as unconsciousness descended, the Warden made sure to leave a parting gift.

"Shit!" The thing groaned – its voice not so booming now, "Another thing I got to clean up." And it began to clear away the remaining contents of the Warden's lunch that he had so thoughtfully produced. The figure sighed. _This whole thing better be worth it._


	4. Greetings

The Warden was aware of consciousness before it overcame him.

However when it did – he became quite aware of something else. He was surrounded; he knew that. Completely and utterly surrounded. And by what? He could not say for the figures around him – as he blinked once, twice, and swung his gaze about – were strategically shadowed, as if they didn't want to be seen. He, however, was quite visible although, like the dark figures, he most certainly did not want to be.

What he could tell, as his vision came into sharper focus, was that the figures themselves were all quite small. Either they were all kneeling, contorted into some sort of position, or just shy of three-feet tall. None of them made it past his mid-line height. However it was also quite apparent that there were a lot of them. Three-feet or six-feet any fight would be a short fight – and he knew exactly which force would win.

"Who…who are you?" The Warden pulled himself up off the ground, placing a hand in front of his eyes to shade them from the bright light above.

"…Who am I?" The Warden recognized the voice from before, the one that had taunted him all along, "Or do you mean who are _we_?"

The voice continued before the Warden could answer. But now the source of it could be placed; one of the shadowy figures detached itself from the line of the group and came forward. If only it weren't for the damn light nearly blinding him, the Warden was sure he could see who…or what, it was, "…You may not know _me_. No, in fact, I'm sure you don't. You couldn't care about anyone other than yourself enough to know something like that. However, I'm sure you can remember all of my friends here. That is – if your ego's hasn't swelled too much." A husky laugh arose from the man. For it was most certainly of the male order. Having spent enough time around Alice, the Warden had become quite adept at differentiating the sexes by ear. He prided himself on being able to tell when a man was a man, and a woman a woman, even if one sounded quite like the other and – even more so – when they shared quite a few things more than just tone similarities. So, he was sure, the thing was of the male sex and was obviously the leader of the whole operation. As it laughed, the rest joined him, like a well trained puppet show.

And then the man stepped into the ring of light that now bounded him and the Warden. He was short – very short. Though the crown of his head only reached the Warden's waistline (if he were to stand. Currently he found himself lying upon the floor, one arm reaching back for support) he made up what he lost in height in strength. The little man accentuated this trait by forgoing the use of a shirt to instead opt for dress more suited for guerilla warfare. His blond hair was ringed by a black band across his forehead and tied neatly in the back; sweat oiled his brow and naked torso; camouflage pants were held up by a second-hand nylon rope and obviously cut off at the legs in jagged strokes in a crude attempt to modify their length; thick boots spit-shined to an evanescent black completed the whole ensemble and adding crucial inches to the midget's height.

"You!" The Warden jabbed pointedly, almost violently, at the man, "I know you!"

The midget assumed a somewhat mischievous scowl, "Oh, well look at you." The Warden managed to pick himself up off the floor and straighten out his appearances, "You've managed not to forget about us. I guess _something _had to get through that thick skull of yours." Again he laughed, a low and guttural one once more adjoined by a chorus of others from the group behind.

The Warden would have none of this. He took on a tone of superiority. He knew these men. He had dealt with them before – once long ago. He could do it again, "Well excuse me B-U-S-T-E-R," he drew out the last word venomously for good effect, "but FYI – that's For. Your. Information. I happen to have a very nice skull. It's not thick at all. In fact, it's very thin and delicate and would break like a melon." The Warden crossed his arms indignantly and sniffed, "So don't be telling me how my anatomy works. Yours has certainly left you short of stature." He laughed at his own joke – a high-pitched, nearly adolescent laugh (reaching a pitch just shy of cracking).

The midget did not find it anywhere near as funny. In fact, he drew in his features to a hard, cold point and though he lowered his voice, all hushed in response. In this way did his words come out even more clearly than if he were to shout them, "My name is not 'Buster', F.Y.I., Warden." He mocked the Warden's tone earlier, even as he addressed him, "You know what it is, don't you?"

"Of course I do. It's…it's…uhm," the Warden stuck a finger up before assuaging his temples, "just give me a minute here. Almost got it…" he began to hum meditatively before biting his tongue as if in deep conversation, "Got it!" He threw his arms up and he stretched – quite literally to the full extent of the word as his body extended far beyond what the flesh and bones should have – as he was caught up in the excitement of his success. He pulled from some pocket of space just out of immediate view his cane and shoved the long, black end of it roughly into the breast of the tiny man before him, "You could be rumpelstiltskin for all I care!"

"No! No, no, NO!" The little man danced angrily about, "I'm Craig, and 'Sir' to my group of conscripts back here." He thrust a chubby thumb over his shoulder and immediately the first line of the group drew forward out of the shadows and into the Warden's view. They, like their leader, were outfitted with whatever scavenged goods they could find that gave way to camouflage and, unlike their leader, they all held weapons of the sharp and deadly variety. Cold steel and heavy bludgeons glared in the single source of light provided by the slightly swaying bulb above. Those still cast in the darkness crafted sharp, jagged outlines behind the others.

Though this was meant to intimidate, the Warden either did not care or take notice for he was intently studying and fussing about his nails (despite the fact that he was garbed in crisp, white gloves). The effect was utterly lost upon him.

Craig continued, otherwise ignoring the Warden's display of indifference, "You will know of our plan of utter domination first as you were the one who first inspired it all those years ago." As he orated, the midget dropped his voice to a low creak so that those around him had to lean in to hear his words even though all but one had heard this story many times before. Craig liked the command he had on their attention and so acted well on his part to be a good storyteller and they the audience, "You see, it was in the beginning of this place…long ago that Superjail was born."

"Geez. I don't want your whole life story." All eyes bored harshly at the Warden. It was time for a story and they would have nothing else, "Okay, okay. Go on if you must." The Warden sighed, exasperated, "You don't have to be such Debbie Downers, God!" He huffed one final time and that was the end of that.

Allowed to continue, the story grew out of its own now. Craig's voice had changed, developed as this tendril of a story was now doing into something of its own; so much a part of and yet unlike the source from which it was borne. It seemed as if the room had drawn down to a single part, a single breath. And that was the breathe of the storyteller now amongst them. Even the Warden, now, took care to listen and let the story take him to time bygone.

"- yes, it was many years ago that Superjail was born. Or rather, I should say built. Though Superjail does indeed breathe, live, and if you get close enough to the center you'll find a heart – beating – after a fashion; it was not always this way. In the beginning – though you may not remember, Warden, so comfortable you are in your place – the jail was nothing more than that; brick and mortar, concrete and stone. A rather boring and utterly mundane thing.

I would know. Rather, _we_, would. We did not intend Superjail in those days to be as it is now. It's dangerous for a place to be self-aware like this.

We were the original creators…all of us."

And then the Warden was thrust back into his present time and space. As Craig threw back his arm in a sweeping gesture over all who stood, so did the Warden's gaze arc across the breadth of the group. But this was just a pause, a short resting point in the story's gait. It plodded forward once more just as smoothly as it had dropped off.

"For a while, everything was good. As we built, so we were paid. Not only in money, but in the assurance that we were keeping some part of this world, some small part of it, that much safer for all. Our task was to build a jail; a regular one with nothing super or extraordinary about it at all…if only we knew." The group en masse hung their heads, some going so far as to dejectedly shake theirs as the collective consciousness anticipated the impending peril, "But then we things began to change. We were nearly finished.

We were never told who our contractor was. I was never told. I was head management of the entire project and I hadn't a clue. But that didn't matter at the time. It was going fine…we were even ahead of schedule.

At some point, construction was nearly finished. But it was then that things began to change. We were given strange orders and told to do things that made no sense. Tear down rooms that we had just built; build new rooms over old ones; seal off perfectly good corridors to rot away; and create manholes – traps really – for the average passerby.

In fact, I'm sure you have noticed the fact that you are in one of those constructs. This concrete room was built over an older brick one – a very dangerous prospect if I do say so myself. Not to mention the original construction suffered from a weak foundation.

Three inches." He projected the number through his upheld digits, "Three inches a year this room sinks. Now that doesn't seem like much but, by all calculations…" he squinted hard as if he didn't already know the answer. This was all show, strictly for the Warden – his newest audience in years uncountable, "you're six feet below basement level by now. It's not only these walls keeping you in, Warden. It seems as if even Nature's turned against you. You and you're jail are _unnatural_."

The Warden shrugged, "Well, that's inconvenient…and true I guess."

"Ah, well you're starting to understand. But I haven't finished our story yet."

The Warden had laid his chin upon the support of his cane and eyes closed as if in rest, "Well that's just great because I'm not getting any younger."

Craig continued, "As I was saying; we were nearly finished. All aboveground structures were completed and all the subterranean foundations were being laid. So I went up, to report progress. But when I did, I found the door to be locked. We had followed layout plans to a 'T' and, so, as bizarre as any other work we had been doing – this was the only entranceway between the basement and all other levels. We were trapped. All 350 of us. We haven't seen the light of day since.

You've the honor to face what's left of us – me and my band of soldiers. That's an army of 129 all armed to the teeth who would love to get their hands on you.

But before you become more personally acquainted with them…we'd like to know…why?"

"Why what?" The Warden, though knowing full well the odds were against him, did not show as much anxiety as one might think in such a situation. What he had learned from the story (for he really hadn't been paying all that close of attention) was that he was currently in Superjail! Sure, it might be a dingy, dirty, room encased by earth, brick, and concrete and stuffed to the gills with sweaty midgets ready for guerilla warfare; but it was still his jail. Was he not Warden? While in the confines of the prison he was master.

"Why you left us here – sealed off from the rest of the world."

"Well, duh!" The Warden cupped his hip with one hand and rolled his eyes as if they had asked him what two plus two equaled rather than a rather more philosophical query questioning his character and the purpose of man's cruelty, "I didn't want to be like that _other_ guy. You now, the one with all the oompa loompas running around. That's just _so_ tacky."

The Warden continued on, "…and if you haven't realized, you guys certainly fit the bill for that sort of thing." He made a gesture indicating their vertically challenged statures.

The crowd now overtook the center of attention and began to press in from all sides. More drew into the light but the Warden hardly noticed; all he knew was that the he was to be engulfed in the chaos. It seemed as if the very walls were closing in which, somewhere in the continual dialogue in his head noted the irony that this proposition held.

"Wait!" a voice harsh, as it reached its breaking point, called out amongst the impending chaos. It was Craig, "We must be civilized about this. Let's not lose our heads."

The crowd collectively agreed. Some stragglers still pressed forward but, like an ocean tide, they were whisked behind in the backwards pull.

"After all," Craig smiled deviously, "he is our guest."

Giggles: maniacal, husky, and dark echoed from a million different directions as the mob joined in too. They were laughs of glee, of triumph, of power, and dark torments festered for too long in the blacker corridors of the human condition and only now bubbling up in a frantic frenzy to the exposed world. They were laughing not in celebration of a happiness but for the conclusion of dark impulses.

The Warden laughed along too. He still did not doubt his own power in this place. However, this did not stop his voice from cracking nor did it prevent him from ending much sooner than it should have. This he could not help, however, as his own laughter was drowned in the greater cacophony frenzy around him.


	5. Must Be Fair

There was an impromptu meeting to be held. A large oak table had been placed parallel to the basement steps with the expanse of the floor between; its back abutting the cell bars. It was hefted upon the muscular shoulders of four unidentified persons; wholly capable of the task though none surpassed a four-foot height. Between the space of bar and wood did three chairs flank the table. Their legs reached high enough so as to meet the tabletops and though the occupants' feet would not touch ground, they most certainly would clear the table height. Mobbed around this structure in tight knots the mob gathered and in the forefront of all this their leader stood.

The Warden stood before this all.

Three of the midgets detached themselves from the group and filed behind the furniture, the groan of well-worn wood cutting through the din as they all took their seats. One of the men pulled a softened punch on the other's shoulder. This man, in a much less generous mood, bloodied his fists upon the first man's nose. That was the end of that.

"Good evening, gentlemen." A crooked smile, impregnated with perfectly cut corn-row teeth split Craig's darkening features, "We are gathered here today for the trail of 'Warden' for his crimes against humanity."

"_Alleged_ crimes." The Warden held up on gloved finger admonishingly, "and besides – if I _were_ to commit said crimes against 'humanity'," he buttressed the word with a motion of his hands indicating a quotation, "-whatever _that _is, I would-"

"Silence!" Craig cut him off with a hiss and simultaneously managed to grab the attention of his larger audience who now seized the low drone of conversation that had pervaded the room just moments before, "Will the accused please state his name?" Though a request, he made it apparent that it was not one to be denied.

"Uh…didn't you just say that like, two seconds ago?" The Warden, having caught the dark glares of the surrounding mob, quickly corrected himself, "I mean…Warden. _The_ Warden."

The jury of three, though quite literally in the cast of Craig's shadow (as he stood between them and the single source of light above them that swayed in its own fluorescent cage) began to scratch words illegible upon ragged sheets placed in front of them. This they did with great care and stoicism as if tasked with taking minutes of the trial or writing something of worthy note. Such an act would be quite a feat as the three (like many of the rag-tag group of guerilla fighters) were incapable of reading. This, however, did not seem to hamper or slow their efforts in the least.

"And what is your occupation, please?" Between the comma and the quotation was pure poison. Craig wished to make clear who was in charge here.

"Oh come on now…really?" The Warden threw up his hands in exasperation. However he could tell by their looks that, yes, really they did wish to know, "Oh, alright!" He punctuated this with a loud groan coupled neatly with a sigh just to make sure all assembled understood the utter tedium this all was. A slight smirk overcame the Warden as the thought struck that it would be much easier if they did away with all of this boring _paperwork_ and just had at him. The Warden himself was never a big fan of trials anyway. The criminal was always guilty, always. That's why they called them criminals. He had built Jailbot for just this reason. Jailbot (and by extension, himself – the Warden) would catch the lawbreaker in the act. Then there was no need for all this boring legal crap. In fact, it was all very neat. His way was much more humane, the Warden mused. And revolutionary. But, for whatever reason, nobody else seemed to get that. The Federal Government, especially, seemed so slow to pick it up. Ah well, that's why he was an entrepreneur – a trailblazer. He could forget all the fuddy-duddies growing old in their offices on capital hill.

In essence, the Warden was much more of a CSI: Miami type of person whereas the rest of the penal system was of the Law and Order type; at best Special Victims Unit, but that was stretching it.

The Warden pinched his brow tight between the clench of his thumb and forefinger, _What was the question, again? Ah! Yes._ "My job is to act as the warden here. Got it? W-A-R-D-E-N. Waaaardeeeen." The syllables drawn out venomously. They would be sure to get it now, thick-headed as they were.

Craig departed from his rigid post to walk – each step a calculated move, "Now how long have you held this occupation, Warden?" He smiled most especially at the last word; the way it spilled from his mouth was anything but mocking.

"Okay, this isn't really my expertise – but I don't think this is how a trial's run."

Another devious smile cracked upon Craig's lips, he was enjoying this all far too much, "Answer the question, _please_."

The Warden began to, his eyes locked upon the treacherous midget.

"No. I meant for the jury."

The Warden faced the assembled jury of three, unaware of his newfound and uncharacteristic obedience. It was amazing what a little pressure could do for the spirits.

"Well," he began – surprised at the fact that the question was not already at his lips – that it was not an answer of reflex, "I've always been the Warden. The first step I took I knew for sure that it was only in preparation for walking past rows of incarcerated inmates. The first word I spoke-" and now he was getting into it – his arms gesticulating in tandem with his words in that trademark way of his and his face taking on the appearance of one who is wholly absorbed and absolutely sincere in their speech, "-was only practice for barking orders. My father was a Warden and, the moment I built a four-walled structure out of building blocks, he knew that I would be too one day. I was born for this."

The passion drained from his figure and sheen overcame his once exuberant gaze as the Warden was faced with the reality of the moment and realization placed him firmly back there.

"Fair enough," his tormenter surmised. Now the little man addressed the entirety of the group, "The jury will now commence to convene and decide the fate of the accused."

"WHAT!?" The Warden fumed, "Where are the witnesses? The evidence? What about lawyers and hearings and all that sh-t? This trial's not done!" He brought his cane down sharply – the rap of it punctuating his every word.

"I believe we've heard enough from you," Craig smiled, remaining as frustratingly calm as ever, "From what you've just told us it's obvious that you'll never see our side…you'll never and can never change your way. Ever. As you just said, you always have, always are, and always _will be_ a Warden. _The_ Warden, if the title really means that much to you. Either way, it's all the same."

"But that's not fair!" The Warden gaped.

"Considering our point of view and the extenuating circumstances," and now the midget made a sweeping gesture with the (small) length of his arm across the mob encircling them, "I'd say its more than fair." He turned to his brethren, "Wouldn't you agree?"

The mob did indeed agree. They whooped, they hollered; they jumped from foot to foot, side to side; some growled low utterances, some curses; others merely stood in silence and gleamed. Yes, it was fair. In fact, it was _more_ than fair enough. Yes, indeed…it was more than fair enough.


	6. Finale

They began to drag him away, fastening their arms between the space of his and twisting them into the crook of their arms so that they were pulled first up and then behind the posture of his head. His body was allowed to follow.

The Warden made no effort when he found himself in this position; after a few stumbling steps backwards he let his spit-shined black dress shoes drag against the concrete floor. They tarnished as they met the variable stains (water? oil? piss?) and spots scattered throughout the room.

To where were they carrying him? To wherever his sentence could be carried out, he supposed. For the jury, upon reconvening, all stood up in complete stoicism – a line reaching a maximum of four feet, at the most – and made their judgments.

Guilty. He was guilty.

And so as all events were wrapping up they - like all things - most naturally followed the grind of what can be called a largely cyclical existence and returned to beginnings as they closed to their ends.

---

It all began with a kiss, a bang; it ended with neither.

There was a boom from the back and left of the Warden's peripheral view. He knew nothing of what would happen. Nor did he know what was occurring as it did; nor, even after the fact, was he quite sure what had gone on. In essence, the Warden was clueless.

The Warden hated being clueless.

Despite what he did or did not wish, the _thing_ happened. Well, to be more precise, a certain number of _things _happened in succession – none of them fortunate for one of the parties present. Unfortunately, for the midget guerillas, this time luck was against them.

If they even believed in such a thing as luck. It's most likely safe to say that such a notion would not, really could not, make it through their toughened dispositions and hardened, pessimistic outlooks upon a life that had treated them more than a bit unfairly.

However, life can be a very fickle thing at times. Philosophies, values, personal truths, dreams, pasts constructed of paths as unique as the crystalline structures of snowflakes, plans plotted for years – in some cases more. So it came to pass then, that lives were truncated by Fate and Nature who; was at the same time both the most tender and dear of Mothers, but also the most cruel and callous of them. In essence; it was a bloodbath.

Which seemed to be a rather common occurrence around here.

One midget, screaming, flew into the air and with a sickening splat hit the far-high corner of the wall. He was not of the Warden's party, so this did the Warden no help. However, the midget – like some sort of grotesque stamp – peeled off its surface and landed upon the pitchfork of another.

This man tried to shake the mess of flesh that lay spiked upon the fork of his weapon and, quite by accident, also managed to spear a rather brutal looking dwarf in the process. Accident or not, this man found it suitable to pull out his own weapon – a long cruel-looking carving knife and place it between the ribs of the first one.

This man fell upon a mass of other ones who – not taking this too kindly – began an all-out fist fight that culminated in the eyes of one soldier being thrown at the face of the another one. The resulting gore blinded the poor midget though this was not his most serious concern; one of the balls of flesh had worked its way down his throat and suffocated him. As he fell, he landed on his revolver which kicked back violently as the bullet exploded from the muzzle – tearing through a score of other men.

The orange-clad midget guerillas, never trusting of the camouflage-clad ones took this as a sign of war and rushed at a group of unwitting dwarfs; flag banner waving in the leader's hand. Though at first surprised, the camouflaged men retaliated – blending into the surrounding background (a feat as everything around them was concrete – not woodland) before pouncing upon their victims and slicing their throats.

One of these decapitated the ensemble surrounding the Warden and they dropped him, heavily, upon the concrete floor. His tailbone groaned and protested against the rough treatment. _Well, I'll be feeling that in the morning. _

And then the cannons came in. Those few still listening to the commander in chief – Craig – worked at controlling the swelling chaos and sticking to their mission; which was, of course, capturing the Warden and penalizing him under the full extent of (their) law. Twenty years of planning would not go wasted.

Yet it seemed as if everything was for working against their efforts; twenty years of it or not. Another midget flew past.

Craig, at the helm of this small dedicated group he had hand-chosen and trained since childbirth, stood attentive. He would give orders, he would see this through, and most importantly; he would not let the Warden win. For he was sure that this was all personal. The Warden had to have known what he had done to him – to his family. How could the Warden not know that these men were his family as much as if he were to have a wife and kids back home? (Though this family was constantly dwindling. Try as they might, an all male group just couldn't produce another generation.) And, of course, Craig never had the chance for a wife and kids; the Warden had taken that away too.

His hand, stationed stiff and pert at his ear suddenly snapped forward, "FIRE!"

The cannon ball erupted from its bearings and was already rolling through the air; a puff of ashen smoke in its wake. Men piled atop it in a gruesomely comical sort of way as the ball hurtled through the crowd. Never matter, a few of his men would die; they were already well into their way on that matter. No, this didn't matter for – as plainly as anyone could see – the Warden lay right in its path.

Of course, the Warden had no idea of the danger he was in. All he knew was that he didn't like it here; everything smelled like pee; he was hungry; and he was missing a hell of a lot of prime-time television.

The ball, now carting four vertically-challenged men upon its path was now only two arms-lengths away from hitting its prime target. One arms-length, a hands length, a breath away, a breadth of hair, an eyelash, the sigh of a mite…

The cannonball crashed into the concrete wall; crashed and broke through until it lay in a pile of rubble half concealed by what remained of the brutalized wall. The attack had killed all four of its victims.

The Warden, meanwhile, had been whisked up and away. He was tired of all this whisking, dragging, and being pulled about and he made sure that whoever had done it this time was sure to know about it. And know about it they did, however they cared little.

"Warden! You're alive!" Jared's voice cut above the increasingly violent din below.

Jared's voice, without fail, gave Warden a headache, "Well, DUH, Jared. What do I look like? The Walking Dead®?"

And then Alice, sweet sweet Alice spoke, her voice a chorus of angels with perhaps a bit of case of bronchitis; but – still, a chorus of angels nonetheless, "What he means is that we're glad to see you alive."

"Oh! Alice!" The Warden straightened his bow with the one free hand that he had. The other one was being strangled in Jared's tight grip who was sweating in his efforts to ensure that he didn't lose his boss to the massacre below, "I'm glad that you're glad that I'm alive. Perhaps we could go celebrate our continuing existence somewhere without all these dorks…if you know what I mean." A blush arose to his cheeks.

"I understand what you mean perfectly," With an ease she took one grasp of the Warden's forearm and hoisted him high up in the air. He came back down with an almost feline grace upon his seat, "We'll get you back to your office 'cause there's going to be a hell of a lot of paperwork to fill out after this."

The Warden slumped over and sighed. He would never get his sweet angel to understand. Yet, even as he was in the throes of his dramatic grieving, he noticed something odd about their ride, "Uhm…I didn't know we had any unicorns here in Superjail.

"We don't," Jared took the opportunity to say; a head with spine attached flew by him as he did, "This is prisoner 0337C. He was in the care of the Doctor for a few weeks."

"Oh, the doctor!" The Warden smiled, his fancifulness coming back to him, "what a WHIMSICAL fellow."

Prisoner 0337C whinnied in agreement.

Alice kicked her heels, and shouted a curt command and then up, up they went away from the crowd of murderous midgets; away from Craig who now only had lost vendettas and vengeances to stew in; away from the dark history of a jail with a dark tenure; away from the continual ignorance of the Warden who, himself, should most likely be locked up and/ or institutionalized but now was upon the back of perhaps the world's first Unicorn - a man made into beast from some other madman – and now they were going up into the sun; the huge bright orb that the Warden had never noticed to be so bright, or blinding. The Warden never knew that a man could be in such darkness for so long and because of this he did not know that a man could get so sick from the shock of sun. But the feeling crawled up on him, took his guts and chewed them up until they were nothing but tubes of bile that needed to be expelled – to be tossed into the air and out because if he kept them any longer he just knew he would die.

It began with a kiss.

It continued with a sigh.

And it ended with a sigh and a bubbling pit of bile.

* * *

_Well, this is it. This is, as the title implies, the last of my story. However, I may add an epilogue to clear things up a bit._

_But it sure was fun in the meanwhile!  
_


	7. Epilogue

**Prisoner 0762L34**

"Yeah, thing's were a lot better without the boss here, you know? It was like we were all kids in a candy store here…except for all the shivs. Maybe we were kids in a shiv store? I don't know. Bottom line here: things were going great without the man in charge telling us who and who not to kill. Or noogie.

I mean, a man shouldn't tell another man if he can or cannot noogie another man. I mean, not the first man; it's what he does to another man. Okay, look: Man A shouldn't be able to tell man B that he can't noogie man Z (that's what comes after 'B', right?). Because its man B's business whether he can noogie the other man – who would be man Z. Or even A. And I suppose A should be able to do the same to B and Z – unless he goes around telling B and Z that they can't.

I mean, it's a free world and all…right?

Anyway, I met a buddy here: Prisoner 0762L94. 076 for short. And guess what? I've known him for about a week. A whole fricking week. I mean, most of the guys here last, what, six hours…tops?

Now if that doesn't tell you something about how this place was without the boss, I don't know what will."

**Jared**

"Augh! Things were out of line with the boss gone. A complete mess! Chaos! I don't know how this place is still standing, but thank goodness it still is. I thought I was going to lose my mind! And it's my head on the chopping block if things don't turn out well. It always is.

Prisoners were running about; Alice and I could barely keep them in line. Never mind Jailbot – he wasn't quite the same without the boss. That's what the Warden gets for giving him artificial intelligence. I warned the boss; I really did. But no! He had to go ahead and install feelings into the damned machine! I mean, who does that? Hasn't everyone seen _AI_? I mean, he must have. Or at least _BicentenialMan_? I mean, God! You've got Steven Speilberg and Robin Williams right there. How could he have not seen those?

First you give a robot just a little bit of self-intelligence and the next thing you know it's questioning the meaning of its existence the moment its creator goes missing.

I mean, GOD! I was going crazy. On one hand I've got the whole of Superjail to run without the boss. On the other, I've got a robot with major PMS. I tell you, man; that's not good for the nerves. Especially mine. I can't say that I didn't turn to the bottle a little bit here and there.

Oh…what's this? Nothing. Really, it's nothing.

Well, of course I don't want you to see it! That's why it's in a brown paper bag. I only use it sometimes. And then only to calm my nerves.

…Of course I can control it. I could stop any time if I wanted to.

Me…a drunk? Well, look mister; you try doing this job and then we'll talk. In fact, I think my nerves are acting up again.

Look, all I'm asking for is a little bit of privacy. Meaning, I think it's time for you to leave."

**The Doctor**

The Warden? I barely even knew he was gone. He rarely comes down here enough as it is. So…how would I know? I keep to myself, mainly.

What? Well, look around you! I'm a man of my work and that's how I like it.

I even heard that experiment "Raging Rainbows", formerly prisoner 0377C, was crucial in the execution of the rescue plan. I always knew he was a special case; destined for greatness. How? Let's just say I have a bit of an intuition.

…and the latest in steel-stained monkey wrench technology. A wonderful field; fast growing, too. I most likely would've found myself in this field if it wasn't for my experiments. They call to me. I'm like a father to them.

And a lover.

….But you're not supposed to know about that last part. Wouldn't want to get my funding cut, now would I? So let's just keep this our little secret, alright?"

**Alice**

What? Oh yeah, that. The boss was gone. It wasn't that bad. In fact, I kind of missed the peace and quiet. The guy can be a bit of a hang-up, you know what I mean? Always trying to get a drink with me or in me.

I didn't miss him too much. I got to keep a few of the prisoners in line; rough them up a bit. A girl's got to keep her figure somehow in this place, you know."

**Jailbot**

0101010111100. 010101001010101011. 111000101101011010101010110. 1010101010110101010111, 10101010010101010101010. 1111001010; 10101010. 01010101010010101. 10101000010101010111110111010010010101010. 10101010 10101010101 101010101 1010 101 101010101010 01010010 1001.

00110101…10101. 10101011? 100001! :[

…000. 0110101 – 1010100001. (0001, 010110101). 001010111001, 110101010101 - 1010101010101001. 101010 10 1010101 10100100101 10101010101.

101010. 10101010101.

00101010100101. 01110101. 010101010101, 1010101010110101. 01010102…. :]

**The Twins**

"We don't like to admit-"

"-but we must say-"

"-this place isn't the same without the purple-hatted fellow."

"-without the purple-hatted fellow."

"So, we had to work our hardest-"

"-at making this place feel like home again."

"It's hard enough when you've got a relative visiting."

"Especially a _girl_ relative."

"But we think we've worked it out pretty well-"

"-and it took nothing more than a bit of imagination. Isn't that right, brother?"

"Yes it is, brother. That, a disposable number of inmates, and a few decommissioned AirForce one fighter jets."

"Don't forget the coliseum-"

"I would never, dear brother."

"Ahahaha."

"Ahahaha"

**Craig**

You know what I've learned through all this? You can never truly judge a person, that's what. I thought I knew the guy; the Warden, I mean.

I can't believe, after hating the guy for God knows how long…twenty years is it now?...he goes and promotes me to Head of Inmate Affairs. It's like our own union down here.

What? What's that? Why? Oh, I don't know. I guess I decided to stay down here in the basement levels because….well…it's not like he didn't let us go up there. He was actually pretty cool about it. No, it was just too bright up there and wasn't really all it was cracked up to be. Geez, I can't believe I thought it was that special up there in the first place.

Yeah, so I spend most of my days here hearing the boys' complaints and looking to see what I can do about it. We get a small funding but, perhaps as the years go on, I can convince the Warden for more. I think he's actually taken a shining to me and – if not that – well, at least it's not hate.

I think I'm done with hate. It's pretty tiring. Though now I don't know what to do with this cannon. I mean, it's a perfectly good cannon. I can't just let it go to waste. Perhaps I'll loan it to the Twins. I've met them. They're a bit strange, but they're not bad…I think. Ah hell, I might even throw in the old cell; I'm not using it anymore now. Alice was asking about it, but I don't even want to know what she/he'd do with it.

Anyway; unfortunately most of the boys didn't survive the last fiasco. I mean, GOD, they were pretty stupid. There must have been some oversight in the recruit training program we had because the guys pretty much massacred themselves. The Warden and his people barely laid a finger on them. In fact, they went flying off on a Unicorn.

A goddamned UNICORN. What does that make me? Beaten by a goddamned loony in a goddamned purple hat with his goddamned unicorn. And that midget friend….and whatever the hell that other thing is they call Alice. She seems like a great gal…or guy; I wouldn't mind having a beer with her (him?). And you know I would, but I'm just too afraid of what I might find back in her (his) apartment.

Well…maybe not that afraid. I haven't seen head or tail of a woman in a long while down here. Whatever Alice is, I think she's (he's?) close enough.

**The Warden**

You want to know what I think about all of this? Well, now at least I know where all those missing Cher tapes went. I thought I had those burned.

What are you doing out of your cell, anyway? Who said you could come up here in my office? And who gave you that recording equipment? Was it Jailbot? He hasn't been feeling himself lately. I'm sure it was.

Come here with that! Get away from the door! I said come here- -

Transmission ended

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_  
_

_I threw in a reference there to someone else's Superjail story; I wonder if they can tell! I'm not quite sure how the timeline would work between the two stories, however. But it would be a cool crossover idea!_

_Also, thank you all for your patience while waiting for this chapter. I know that there was a mix-up with the last one. ;) Also, I hope that this answers some of your questions and raises some others._

_Kitten, I did get your message, however your contact information did not transfer through the e-mail. So I have no other way of getting through to you other than here; in the author's note. I do, however, have interest in your idea and would love to further keep in contact with you about it! _

_I also recognize the fact that I am uploading this on Easter day. Fear not! For am I uploading this on the long car trip there - not taking out any actual time with my family. Go me! :)  
_

_And, of course, as always:_

_Thanks for reading!_

_Special Thanks to_

_Wicked Riter. Go check her out!  
_


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